


The First Sin

by tunteeton



Series: Omega's Lament [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Incest, Alpha John, Alpha Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Forced Bonding, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, So much angst, The Author Regrets Everything, there is nothing funny about this thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen minutes after Mycroft Holmes sent John Watson back to his little brother, he arrived home and poured himself a generous glass of his best whisky. It was an old habit – whisky on Sherlock's first day of heat. He took his time drinking it, sitting by the fire and mentally going through the worst failures of his life. Mycroft knew well enough that he couldn't change the past, but he'd be damned if he couldn't learn from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Sin

**Author's Note:**

> So... this story contains some truly bad sex and even worse choices. And two confused Holmes brothers. It's not a happy story. You have been warned.

Seventeen minutes after Mycroft Holmes sent John Watson back to his little brother, he arrived home and poured himself a generous glass of his best whisky. It was an old habit – whisky on Sherlock's first day of heat. He took his time drinking it, sitting by the fire and mentally going through the worst failures of his life. Mycroft knew well enough that he couldn't change the past, but he'd be damned if he couldn't learn from it.

It was sentiment, he knew, and accepted that weakness in himself. Because he had emptied bottles and bottles of the stuff, during these last fourteen years, and yet nothing had changed. He wasn't even sure there was anything to be taken away from the mess. Every year Sherlock's heats became worse and Mycroft's conscience grew heavier. Mummy blamed Sherlock. Mycroft blamed himself. Sherlock was too far gone to blame anyone.

The truth of the matter was, Mycroft Holmes had lost control exactly two times in his life, and both times his little brother was the one to suffer for it.

He took a measured sip from his glass and let the memories take hold.

–

They had spent summers together in Mycroft's town house, back then. Sherlock had been a sight to behold, all young energy, long limbs and wild hair. His curiosity had been insatiable, his mind sharp and his thirst for knowledge apparently endless. He'd move in by mid May, bringing loads of books, notebooks, laboratory equipment and of course his beloved violin. Mycroft had a room made ready for him, and Sherlock would burrow straight in, make a mess in half an hour and then contentedly research away until September. They'd dine together in the evenings, Sherlock telling about the things he had found out during the day while Mycroft shared little tales about his work in the ministries. Quite often, Sherlock played for him on the lazy hours after dusk, or they'd take walks together and deduce the passers-by. It had been a lovely time, full of promise for the both of them. Mycroft had gone on to fulfil that promise, making Mummy proud, while Sherlock had gone... another path.

Yes, it had been the time before the drugs, before the terror and the agony of not being enough, of not being able to help. Most of all, it had been the time before the constant, torturing worry that was his only house guest these days. None of the horror of the later years would have happened if Mycroft could have been better, could have been worthy of his brother's unwavering trust. The downfall had started, as these things tended to do, with an accident.

–

He tasted the whisky thoughtfully and let the warmth of the fire relax his tired feet. John should be near Baker Street by now.

–

They had both presented at the age of fifteen, Mycroft as an alpha (making Mummy proud) and Sherlock as an omega. None of that had been a surprise, even though their aunts had held hope for Sherlock until the event actually happened. There had been plans for him, following Mycroft into politics, never mind that anyone who knew Sherlock at all – meaning his brother – knew that he could never become a politician. Sherlock had the heart of a scientist or a philosopher, full of questions and the need to understand, but little patience for the stupidity of others.

In that way, being an omega was probably a relief for him, at first. Even the heats were easy on his young body, and while they both found the business quite distasteful, it was still simple to handle. For his summer heat, Sherlock would retreat into the special room made for just that purpose in the attic of Mycroft's city home, appearing a week later a little paler but otherwise fine. A beta maid brought him food once a day, and if there were some... noises at times, well, Mycroft was in the habit of travelling during that week anyway and the neighbours would hardly complain.

So it was simple bad luck that Mummy's cat, aptly named Moira, was spending that summer, fourteen years gone now, with them. Mummy was in Italy, and Mycroft had offered to look after the curious feline for her. Moira was in the bad habit of squeezing herself into every crook and cranny she could find. That she frequented tabletops went without saying. When either of the brothers chased her away she'd move only the minimal amount demanded of her, all the while judging them with her expressive green eyes. Moira was well aware who was on the top of the food chain here. Mummy loved her sons, but adored the cat. In her own mind, Moira was invincible. In others', she was a total nuisance.

To think that all this grief boiled down to a candle, left unattended on the dining room table, and one overconfident cat! It was the first day of Sherlock's summer heat, and Mycroft had been eating alone. He had plans to travel to Manchester in the morning, and made reservations on the phone after dinner. The familiar sounds of Bach playing in the background helped him relax as he discussed the particulars of this trip. He used to walk around while talking, a bad habit he had since weaned himself out of, and the cat had jumped on the table to inspect his plates. It was as simple as that. Moira bumped the candle on her way towards Mycroft's scraps, and it fell to the table cloth, which caught fire.

They were alone in the house. The maid came on mornings, and the cook had left already. While Mycroft busied himself with smothering the fire, Sherlock heard the alarm and, for once, did the right thing and evacuated to the garden. Mycroft found him there a quarter of an hour later, clad only in his pyjama bottoms and shivering badly. He should've seen the dazed expression on his brother's face, but he was still high on the adrenaline of the near miss with the fire. He went to Sherlock without a second thought, wanting to make sure he was all right. That was his first mistake.

–

His phone rang.

“Doctor Watson has entered 221B Baker Street, sir.”

“Excellent. Don't let anybody else in. Call me if he exits.”

“Yes, sir.”

–

Sherlock was shivering almost uncontrollably and leaned against Mycroft heavily. His concerns rose immediately. Later on, when he was able to analyse the situation, he recognised the telltale markers of an omega's distress pheromones. They were designed to raise any nearby alpha's protective instincts to a peak and ensure the omega's safety. That they had other effects as well was an unfortunate addition. 

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock's bare shoulders and had a sudden need to pick him up from the cold grass and carry him inside. The contact of his brother's rough jacket against his sensitive skin made Sherlock whimper. Mycroft shushed him.

“It was just the cat. Everything's all right. Let's get you back inside, shall we?”

Sherlock came with him willingly, but his shivers didn't cease. Mycroft led him to the living room, where the CD was now playing one of Bach's sonatas – sonata no. 3 in C major – and roused the flames in the fireplace. That was the second mistake, of course. He should've taken him straight back to his room, but by that time, the pheromones were already working against him, and they were strong. Little by little, Sherlock stopped being his beloved brother and became instead just an omega in distress. He had to take care of the poor omega. Yes, he'd take good care of him.

When the fire was crackling happily again, he fetched a chequered felt from the master bedroom and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders. It was accepted gratefully and Mycroft felt a warm mix of happiness and satisfaction swell inside himself at the sight and scent of Sherlock inside something belonging, and smelling, of himself. That really should have been a screaming warning signal, but instead he just took a great lungful of air and enjoyed the sensation. Something dark was stirring inside him, but it was still small and vague, insignificant.

“I'll be going then,” Sherlock said and made a move towards the staircase. The suppressed alpha inside Mycroft's mind reared its head. The omega was going to leave? That wasn't acceptable, not at all. He rushed between Sherlock and the staircase, blocking his way and raising his palms against the felted shoulders.

“No, stay,” he murmured, keeping his voice low and unthreatening. A cloud of sweet scent rose in the air when Sherlock stopped to look at his hands, his eyes wary. The scent went straight into Mycroft's cock. The omega smelled so right, so perfect. He had to get closer. A little sniff wouldn't hurt, would it? He nuzzled his nose briefly against the omega's neck, taking in the unbelievable sensation. There. Eden.

Instantly, Sherlock froze and the room became utterly quiet. The CD was changing tracks and Mycroft woke from his haze to understand what was happening. He drew back, apologies already on his lips, but then he saw the look on Sherlock's face.

Grey eyes almost completely taken over by black pupils, fixed at Mycroft's own mouth. A lovely pink colour high on his cheeks. Lips partially open, his breaths small and fast. And there, on that pale, long throat, the pulse. Strong. Elevated.

The apology turned instantly into a need to kiss, to ravage that mouth and deepen the pink of his lips and cheeks into a rosy red. He noticed, detached, that he was hard and standing really, really close to his own brother. It didn't seem... important. What was important was Sherlock's scent and the fact that he had been leaving the room. He must not leave the room.

The sounds of Fugue in G minor filled the sudden silence. At once, Sherlock woke from his trance, ripped his eyes away from his brother's lips and started again towards the stairs. The alpha behind Mycroft's carefully neutral face was snarling. What did the omega think he was doing? He gripped Sherlock's shoulders and pushed him against the nearest wall, heard the thump of his back meeting the wall with satisfaction. He couldn't help giving a predatory smile when he noticed that Sherlock was shivering again. This time, it was not because of the cold evening air.

“What...?” His voice sounded thick, slurred, like he couldn't quite control his tongue.

The thought of that tongue drew Mycroft close again. Sherlock had always been smaller than him, in his youth even more so. It was easy, covering his body with his own, trapping him between the tiled wall and his demanding torso, his searching hands. It was almost too easy. Almost like Sherlock didn't want to escape that much after all.

“Don't go,” Mycroft iterated, forced his thoughts away from the omega's mouth. Lips, forbidden. Throat, good. Concentrate on the throat. He dipped his head again, found that throbbing pulse point with his own lips, opened his mouth, drew in the heady scent. Near his ear, Sherlock let out a small whimper and ground himself, very minutely, against Mycroft's warm body. Clad only as he was in pyjama bottoms and an old felt, it was impossible to miss the state of his own arousal. Mycroft wasn't the only one interested in the proceedings of the evening. Victoriously, the older brother bared his teeth and grazed that fascinating throat with them, still withholding his tongue.

His senses were on overdrive. The small movements Sherlock made, the goose bumps on his skin, the warm puffy breaths against his ear, they all felt momentous, full of meaning. He continued the slow exploration of the omega's throat until Sherlock moaned, pushed himself fully against his body and turned his head to the side, offering him a perfect access to his neck and bared shoulders. Only then did Mycroft allow him the pleasure of his tongue, tasting and lapping the warm flesh. It wasn't long before Sherlock's occasional moans had turned into continuous whimpering, the felt had fallen from his lax fingers and he was rubbing his own erection against his brother's belly. 

–

Later, he had gone obsessively over the events of that fateful night, dissecting them, trying to decide who started what, on whom the blame had to be laid. Deep down, he knew he already possessed the answers. Sherlock couldn't be held responsible for his actions while in heat. It was a lesson well-learnt, the consent had to come before the heat started. Raping an omega was the easiest thing in the world, because they would help their attacker all the way through.

No consent was asked, neither given. Hence, the guilt lay heavy on Mycroft's shoulders. But then, when he analysed his own actions, he couldn't point to any moment of decision, of conscious thought in his part. Ever since Sherlock had entered the house after the near-miss with the candle, Mycroft had more or less functioned on his alpha instincts.

No jury would judge against him, he knew that. He was an alpha, alone in a house with a distressed omega in heat. Familial relations had no force in situation like that. It'd be ruled an accident. Accidents happen.

If only he had been strong enough to leave it at that. If only having Sherlock once would have satisfied him. But he hadn't, and it didn't.

He needed more whisky.

–

They were both new to this. Intellectual pleasure had been their companion of choice, and the new, strange demands of the flesh were an enemy hard to understand and even harder to resist. Somehow, Mycroft's hand found its way to Sherlock's arse, his fingers gripped a handful of firm flesh, and the result was immediate. Sherlock arched against him, moaning wantonly, his erection unashamed against his hip. An intoxicating scent of omega in true heat filled the room, and his palm, when he withdrew it, was wet. Sherlock had started lubricating. The alpha saw its chance and took over.

He dropped to his knees, mouthing at Sherlock's peaked nipples, quivering sides and the little trail of pale hair disappearing beneath his trousers. Those had to go. He let his hands slide down after his lips, gentle against his brother's hips, then firm down to his shins and ankles, taking the fabric with them. Sherlock leaned against the wall, his breathing unsteady, his eyes huge. When Mycroft lowered his own eyes, he came face-to-face with his brother's erection and small, tight balls. They weren't important. As soon as Sherlock was freed of the offending garment, Mycroft turned him around. There, finally, was the omega's arse, wet and fascinating and so very, very hard to resist. He didn't even try.

He secured his grip on the omega's hips and pulled until he was positioned to his liking, feet firmly on the floor, palms against the tiled wall and arse raised and undefended in between. Sherlock was pliant and malleable, going where he was put, the little twitching of his backside the only movement he made himself save his constant, almost pitiable whimpering. When the alpha was satisfied with the display, Mycroft felt his mouth open and then he was on the omega, parting his cheeks and tasting the heavy, perfect lubricant for the first time in his life. It wasn't long before Sherlock was rutting against him, and Mycroft could only imagine the feeling of being overwhelmed with the sensation of a firm tongue piercing him.

And pierce he did, hardening and softening his tongue in turns, until he had a mewling, shaking omega in his hands and saliva and lubricant on his cheeks. He was drowning in the smell and taste of Sherlock, and he needed Sherlock to drown with him. He took a hold of the omega's cock with his right hand, gave it a firm caress, and the sounds Sherlock made were unbelievable. He buckled between the alpha's hand and tongue, not knowing which way to thrust, and his whines became moans became cries, until it was clear that he was only moments away from coming. That wouldn't do. Mycroft was his alpha. Mycroft got to decide when he was allowed such pleasure. He slid his hand down, found the slippery balls already drawn up, and tugged down sharply. Sherlock screamed and collapsed against the wall, his arse still on helpless offer.

“The floor,” Mycroft said and was surprised to find out his voice didn't tremble at all. Sherlock obeyed at once, dropping to the floor and presenting instinctively.

The view gave Mycroft a pause. Seeing Sherlock like this, on all fours, hole wet and held up for his approval, subjugated to his biology's demands, was sobering. It was the last point of mutiny, the actual point of no return. He looked, and he saw his own brother, and he knew clearly what he was about to do, and instead of abstaining he reached out, pushed Sherlock's forehead against the hardwood floor and stripped out of his own trousers.

His cock seemed rather enormous compared to the tight hole his tongue had encountered, but he supposed it was all right. It certainly felt wonderful against his tip, shut and yielding at the same time. Sherlock started struggling almost immediately, but he took hold of his hips and kept him in place. He knew the first penetration should be careful, but it was so difficult to go slowly when he wanted nothing more than ram straight in.

“Please, please, please,” Sherlock was whispering, and his hole twitched wonderfully, tight and hot around his invading cock. He didn't stop his struggles even when Mycroft shushed him, and then finally he was completely inside, felt Sherlock's bottom against his hips, and Sherlock was panting and maybe crying a little. It was hard to concentrate when everything felt so terribly good. His cock demanded more friction and he started moving, thrusting really, and then Sherlock was howling, and certainly crying, but Mycroft was past caring. Everything was perfect, until it wasn't.

His knot started to come alive, and it impeded the smooth slide of his cock on each thrust in, and Sherlock must feel it too because he fought in earnest now. Mycroft grasped his whole pelvis, hands meeting around his stomach, to keep him in place. The omega had to accept his knot. He was his, surely he knew that? He had to agree, had to understand. But his hole was tight and he wouldn't relax, and the alpha's anger woke.

“Who do you belong to?” He growled, pounding into the tight heat, almost raising the omega's knees from the floor in his desperation to get where he wanted to be. He got only indecipherable mewls as an answer.

“Who. Do. You. Belong. To.” He repeated, emphasising each word with a vicious thrust, and finally, _finally_ the omega surrendered, went limp on his arms and answered.

“You, only you,” he sobbed, and the knot breached him, and Mycroft surged forward until he was pounding freely into the unresisting flesh, and his orgasm was loud in his ears, and the final piece, the perfect ending to their shared symphony, was waiting there on Sherlock's neck. He yanked his keening brother up by his shoulders, and just as the best orgasm of his life was towering over his head, he buried his teeth into the waiting flesh and came so hard he went blind and deaf for a moment.

And so it was, that to the sounds of Bach's sonata no. 2 in A minor, Mycroft Holmes bonded with his little brother and sealed his fate to his own once and for all. 

–

His wits returned with his breath. Sherlock lay, limp and conquered, under him and the CD had reached its end. His knot disappeared out of sheer horror and he jerked himself backwards, away from his bondmate, his _brother_ , for God's sake, away from the room, into the garden, where he stopped only to pull his trousers up again. Then he run, without stopping to look back, to the car and drove straight to the railway station. He made it just in time to the train for Manchester, and he worked through the night, the next day and the next night, until he was dizzy and the world was twirling. Only then did he check into a local hotel, falling to the welcoming bed before even taking his shoes off.

He was woken a couple of hours later by his phone ringing. It was Sherlock. Mycroft stared at the thing with a mute terror before turning it off, accepting himself as the coward he was. The world was still twisting, and it took him many minutes to understand that it wasn't because he was tired, but because Sherlock was still in heat, and in pain, and Mycroft could _feel_ it. He promptly went out and bought the biggest, vilest bottle of whisky he could find, thus starting the fine tradition.

–

It was Sherlock who arranged the talk with Mummy. Mycroft arrived on time, already cowed, avoiding his brother's eyes. What was there to be said? And anyway, their bond made it possible for Mycroft to feel Sherlock's loneliness and confusion. He did his best to ignore the longing he felt coming from his baby brother. No good would come from acknowledging that.

Mummy saw it as soon as she received them, of course, and, as was her wont, decided everything was Sherlock's fault. Mummy was a creature of tradition, and an alpha at that, and the tradition favoured the alphas. Only later had Mycroft started to suspect that there was more to it than the fact that Mycroft was the eldest, the one in the politics, the alpha, the success story. That no matter how Sherlock tried (because he had tried, when he was younger, oh how he had tried), nothing would have changed. That it had been father who had sealed Sherlock's fate as the eternal second-best long before he himself had had a say in the matter.

Mummy stated her judgement, and Sherlock sat quietly and accepted it, not once trying to get a word in. And Mycroft sat beside him, ashamed and miserable, and let it happen. When it was over, Sherlock left the room and Mummy turned to him.

“I know how hard it is, Mycroft,” she said, “but remember. Caring is not an advantage.”

–

After that, the communication between the brothers ceased completely until December. When his phone rang, on a rainy Wednesday, he answered without second thought. Stupid, stupid him. He should have understood.

Sherlock was in heat.

He cried, he begged, he pleaded for Mycroft's help. His voice trembled and he moaned and when Mycroft closed his eyes, he could see his omega's hands, restlessly moving over his cock, between his arse cheeks, pushing inside his hole.

He ended the call, turned his phone off and went outside to buy another bottle of whisky. He spent that Christmas together with Mummy and Moira, three miserable days on the countryside, before escaping back to the city, referring his busy working schedule.

Sherlock didn't call again. Mycroft suffered weird headaches and stomach upsets during the springtime.

He only understood what was going on in May. Sherlock had started using drugs.

–

He assigned two of his own men to tail his bondmat... – his _brother_ – at all times, afraid he would end up beaten or abused on the street. He bugged his apartment, bugged even his equipment, kept an eye on him through the camera network and received reports on him once a day. He learned about every fix, every stumble, every fall. Sherlock never looked for another alpha. He didn't seem to look for anything in particular, spending his time roaming around the city or pestering the local police force. Mycroft watched him grow thinner, wilder, more animalistic. He stopped eating. Then he stopped sleeping.

And then he went missing.

Nobody seemed to know what had happened. Mycroft called off every meeting for that day, sent every single agent he could spare out looking for him, sat alone in his office and tried to activate the bond he had spent nearly a year denying and ignoring.

Still it took them thirteen days to find the omega, huddled together with other addicts on the brown beaches of the Thames, far beyond Greenwich. Mycroft did a lot of navel-gazing during those days, admitting to himself some painful truths.

Sherlock was special. Sherlock was different from anybody else he had ever known, or would ever come to know. He loved him fiercely, only his possessiveness outweighing his love, and if he was anybody else, or if Sherlock was anybody else, he'd be proud to call him his mate. They had known each other intimately, appreciated and treasured their time together. It wasn't just him. Sherlock felt the same way. That was why he had been so lost since... the incident. 

He doubted he'd ever feel that way for anybody else.

He doubted he could ever let Sherlock go.

He doubted his sanity.

Sherlock was taken straight to a safe house for detoxing, one of Mycroft's agents with a medical record keeping him company at all times, and for a couple of days, everything went fine. The reports came steadily again, the detox seemed to progress excellently, and Mycroft let go of the breath he hadn't noticed he was holding.

And then the despised bond started screaming during a tough negotiation, and Mycroft nearly caused an international incident when he understood what was going on.

Sherlock was, once again, going into heat. He was in the safe house with Mycroft's own agent, an alpha named Carlsen. Sherlock was. In heat. With an alpha.

Mycroft had never moved so fast in his life. Carlsen didn't answer his phone. The safe house was twenty one minutes away by car. He made it in fourteen, running every red light on the way. He later learned that he had been a direct cause of two traffic accidents and an indirect cause of five more. None of that mattered.

His omega. Another alpha.

Protect. Possess. Punish.

He didn't bother turning the engine off when he arrived at the scene. He had an erection. It seemed logical at the time. His omega was in there. His claim was being challenged. He rushed in, only to come to a dead stop on the living room door. The scent filling the air was well-remembered, even after a year's absence.

Carlsen had backed Sherlock into a corner of the room, his muscular arms on the omega's narrow hips, his nose on the alluring neck. And Sherlock, he was nearly vibrating, reluctance clear on the set of his shoulders, his biology insistent once again. Their eyes met, and Sherlock's face went slack with relief, and he automatically offered his neck.

Carlsen was closer. Mycroft saw his mouth opening. Then he was roaring, and flailing, and somehow there was suddenly blood in his mouth, and when he regained his senses, he was alone in the room with a trembling Sherlock already half out of his clothes. The alpha inside was still in charge, and without any ceremonies Mycroft jerked the omega against himself and mouthed at the bond-scar. Sherlock was still undoubtedly his. Nobody else was allowed a touch.

He more felt than heard Sherlock's moans, and before he knew what was happening, his hands were on the omega's hips and he was turning him around, ready to confirm their bond for all eternity. It was only when he had Sherlock draped over the living room table that reality caught up with him.

Not his bondmate. Not his omega. His brother. Sherlock was his brother. He couldn't do this. Not _again_.

Sherlock, however, had other thoughts. He was squirming on the table, his legs open and welcoming, his hips twitching up towards the alpha. Mycroft looked at him, and there was a brief, intense fight going on inside his confused mind, and it ended on a stalemate.

He couldn't have Sherlock.

But he couldn't not have him either.

He swore vehemently, turned his damned brother around and shoved his angry cock right down his throat. Sherlock went still with surprise, but soon he was moaning again, and then he started sucking, and what he lost in inexperience he made up in enthusiasm. There wasn't time for social niceties in Mycroft's boiling mind, and as soon as Sherlock had regained his composure the alpha had a two-handed grip of his curls and fucked his mouth like it was the only thing that mattered at all. Sherlock sputtered and gagged, but the single thing capable of stopping Mycroft would have been the house falling down on them.

The knot came as a surprise for them both. Turned out Sherlock couldn't open his jaws wide enough to let it pass out again. There was a moment of bewildered contemplation, but then Sherlock's back was arching, and he had one hand on his own, leaking cock and another on Mycroft's hip, and he jerked off right there on Mycroft's feet with Mycroft's knot filling his mouth like the most organic gag ever while his brother held on for dear life.

What followed were some of the longest twenty minutes of Mycroft's life. Sherlock glared daggers at him every time his cock pulsed inside his mouth, but there was nothing for it but to swallow what was given. Mycroft tried to look apologetic, but his alpha side was gloating, perversely happy to see his omega in such a compromising situation, so undeniably _his_.

It told a lot about Mycroft's state of mind that it took him nearly sixteen minutes to understand what was going on.

“You _planned_ this,” he groaned, eyes widening. “You knew you were going into a heat. You disappeared on purpose just to lure me in here.”

Sherlock stared at him stubbornly. It wasn't like he was able to answer anyway.

“Sherlock, we _can't_ do this. It's not right. It's not proper.”

The fact that he orgasmed right after saying that took quite a lot away from the strength of his statement, and somehow Sherlock managed to look devilishly pleased with himself. 

“I won't allow it, Sherlock. It won't happen.”

He fled as soon as the knot let him go, leaving Sherlock to get through the rest of his heat alone. All his guards were replaced with betas, and they always worked in pairs. Mycroft had underestimated his brother once. That wouldn't happen again. He had learned to be more careful, and in the years to come Sherlock converted his need for an alpha into a full-blown drug addiction and a steadily fouling temper. Mycroft researched omegas' sexual needs, fretted and stayed up long nights, and watched Sherlock obsessively for any sign of a deteriorating health.

The heats became terrible.

By the fifth year Sherlock couldn't control himself any more. The beta guards had to stop him escaping outside and getting himself raped four times during one single day. Mycroft read the reports, watched the video feed, and finally called his brother. Sherlock was lying on his bed, folded in two over his cramping stomach and moaning miserably. His voice was almost gone. From the feed Mycroft could see that his hands were trembling so badly he had trouble picking up the phone.

“My... _please_.”

“No, Sherlock,” said Mycroft Holmes and hated himself.

“I can't. Not any more. _Please_.”

“You can't go out to the street,” Mycroft pushed on, ignoring his brother's pleading. “You know that.”

“I'll stay inside. Just please, _come_.”

“ _No_ , Sherlock. But I'll be watching you. You won't be alone.”

Sherlock flipped him off, but crawled to the edge of the bed to open a little desk drawer. He unearthed a huge black butt plug and handcuffs, and Mycroft only stayed on the feed until he saw Sherlock cuff his left wrist to the bed. The message was clear, and Sherlock was entitled to some privacy at least. 

–

So God knew he was happy when John Watson limped into his brother's life. He waited, and he watched, but with every heat his hopes diminished. John left Sherlock alone, time and a time again. He had no doubts it was by Sherlock's own orders, because of his stubborn, misplaced loyalty, but he knew what was happening during the heats. Sherlock's body couldn't take it much longer. Sooner or later he would rip himself apart.

So he swallowed his pride, and his possessiveness, and he took John Watson aside for a little chat. And then he went home and poured himself a glass of whisky and didn't think at all about tearing John's throat out with his own teeth.

–

His phone rang again. A cold dread rose in his stomach. No. John couldn't do that. He wasn't that cruel.

“What is it now?”

“Judging by the sounds coming through the windows of 221B Baker Street, I'd say doctor Watson is not going to exit the building for some days, sir.”

He allowed himself a smile. Maybe Sherlock would finally be all right. That was worth another glass of the whisky.

“Thank you, Robertson. Stand by. You'll be relieved shortly.”

The fire crackled on.

Maybe they'd even visit in the summer.


End file.
